


Getting There

by rikyl



Category: Parks and Recreation
Genre: Drabbles, F/M, Season 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-16
Updated: 2011-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-18 03:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10608780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikyl/pseuds/rikyl
Summary: Four drabbles written early in Season 3.





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Leslie Knope could remember wanting to use the word “sexy” to describe something, she was 17 and taking an American history essay exam. Question 3 asked why the elastic clause was an important part of the US Constitution. Pencil poised above paper, she pictured the Founding Fathers hashing out a way to make sure this document they fought so hard to create would be here long after they weren’t, and so they included this way for it to adapt and survive. It was practical, and it made sense, but there was this underlying current of optimism and hope to the idea. And there was something sexy about that.

 

Of course, she hadn’t written that in her blue book. But for some reason, the thought popped into her head as she furtively eyed a tall, dark state auditor talking to her boss across the room.

 

When she was young, Leslie used to think she would fall for a dreamer or a poet. Some sort of visionary. And back in college, she actually had dated a few wide-eyed wonderers, guys who seemed to be able to spin words into revolutions in dark coffeehouses in the middle of the night. But these were guys who couldn’t stand with two feet on the ground if they were supposed to be the anchor of a Tug of War team. When it came time to knock on doors and write letters and pass petitions, they were sleeping off their hangovers. And when it came down to it, Leslie realized she needed more than a handful of Nietzsche quotes and late-night treatises on the way things should be. She needed people who were willing to do the hard work of actually getting something done.

 

Because Leslie liked getting things done. She liked pro/con lists and brainstorming sessions and mission statements. She liked action plans and bullet-pointed lists and color-coded binders.

 

And spreadsheets. She was developing a newfound weakness for spreadsheets.

 

And there was something about that guy across the room, the one who was spinning numbers and line items into cotton candy and fireworks. He was practical, and he made sense, and—she hadn’t noticed this right away—but he had this underlying current of optimism and hope to him.

 

And she couldn’t help herself. There was just something undeniably sexy about that.


	2. Chapter 2

After working late one night, Ben and Leslie went out for a beer, as they sometimes did these days. With hardly anyone else there on a random Tuesday evening, they convinced the bartender to switch the TV over to the local news, and Ben had been enjoying making Leslie laugh with dry jabs at the local media personalities. Then after the weather, the newscaster threw on some footage of a state legislator who was giving a press conference after being accused of taking illegal campaign contributions. And it was her.

 

“I knew that woman,” he said without thinking.

 

“Oh yeah?” Leslie turned to him with mild interest.

 

“Yeah, I was almost engaged to her.” Ben could have smacked himself. What was it about Leslie that made him want to confess everything that had ever gone wrong in his life? Not even his own mother knew how close he’d once come to getting married.

 

“Nooooooo. Seriously?” With wide eyes, Leslie looked between him and the screen, from the mild state auditor to the successful but scandalized politician. Then she smiled a bit mischievously. “You know, I was just thinking, she looks a bit like an insect. Two more limbs, and she’d be an insect.”

 

And he had to laugh, because of course Leslie would say something to put him at ease again. “Leslie Knope, I’ve never known you to say something unkind about someone,” he mock-scolded. "You're right, though, she did have a terribly tough exoskeleton."

 

Leslie looked suitably shamed, then curious again. “Well, you don’t have to tell me, but I’m dying to know. What happened?”

 

“We met in college,” he said, eyes on his beer. “She was brilliant and ambitious and charismatic. She was obviously going places, and for some reason, she let me ride on her coattails for a while.”

 

“And … then you realized she was in the pocket of big business?”

 

“No. Yeah. Something like that. … I guess I just realized I didn’t like her all that much. She craved power and attention, and after a while that started to rub me the wrong way.”

 

“So you broke up with her.”

 

“Nope. Idiot kid, I bought her a ring. And she broke up with me before I could give it to her.”

 

He was surprised when Leslie rested a sympathetic hand on his. But almost immediately, she pulled it back, and they went back to watching as the venerable state representative seemed unable to decide whether to cast herself as inept or unethical.

 

“Just think,” Leslie said, tilting her bottle toward the polished but pained-looking husband/campaign manager standing off to the side of the podium. “You could be that guy.”

 

“Thank God for small favors,” he murmured and smiled at the very non-insect-like woman sitting next to him.


	3. Chapter 3

Somewhere along the way—and don’t ask her why—Leslie had started making a mental catalogue of every shirt that Ben owned.

 

She had a special soft spot for the blue and orange plaid. Green and orange? Maybe turquoise and orange—she couldn’t be quite sure. And then there was the brown plaid, the other brown plaid, the brown and blue plaid, and the dark red (purple?) plaid. Really, there was quite a lot of plaid.

 

Even the ones that had looked white at first glance had actually turned out to be plaid or striped upon closer inspection—white on top of a different shade of white. Now what was the point of that?

 

But that bright aqua and green and white plaid he was wearing today—the same one he’d worn to her hospital room a few months back—now that was her favorite. Those colors together were an effective get-well message all by themselves. They made her think of an umbrella on a beach on a hot summer day. Or a …

 

“Leslie, why are you looking at me like that?”

 

... school field trip to an aquarium. “What? No, I wasn’t …”

 

“Yes you were. You were just staring at my chest. And I know there’s not much to stare at there, so what’s up? Lost in thought?”

 

She could feel herself blushing. “Nothing. I was just thinking, I like your shirt.”

 

“Oh. Um, thanks.”

 

“Did you pick that out yourself?”

 

“No, my mom made it for me. Yes, I’m a grown man, I buy my own clothes.”

 

“You should wear that when you meet people. When you first go to a town, instead of dressing like the grim reaper. They wouldn’t be so scared of you.”

 

He smirked. “I find it makes my job easier if people are a little scared of me.”

 

“They wouldn’t be if they knew you.”

 

“Oh yeah? And what would they think if they knew me?”

 

“They’d know you were a guy who wears shirts like that.”


	4. Chapter 4

When he got back to his hotel room one evening, Ben booted up his laptop just to check some hockey scores. Bored by reading about the Minnesota Wild sliding into another disappointing season, he clicked over to his e-mail. It was all spam and—oh, wait—one note from his mom. Reluctantly, he clicked. In all capital letters, it simply read:

 

“BENJI WYATT, IF YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOOD FOR YOU, YOU BETTER CALL OR E-MAIL JUST SO I KNOW YOU'RE ALIVE."

 

Guilt washed over him. He hadn’t been on great terms with his parents since he left Minnesota, but he usually made the minimally acceptable effort to keep in touch. He didn’t call as often as he should, but he’d at least send his mom an occasional few-sentence e-mail letting her know where he was and asking how they were.

 

But tonight, for reasons unclear to him, he actually had the urge to call. Before he could second-guess himself, he was dialing the numbers.

 

“Hellooo?” His mom’s soft Minnesota sing-song came over the line.

 

“Hi, Mom. It’s Me. Ben.”

 

Pause. “Benji? DICK IT’S BENJI ON THE LINE!”

 

“Mom, stop, nobody calls me that anymore,” he said, feeling like he was 13 all over again.

 

“Benji, I went through fourteen hours of labor to bring you into this world, and I can call you whatever I want. But why are you calling? Is something wrong?”

 

“No, nothing’s wrong, Mom. Just, you know, missing your hotdish. And wondering how you guys are doing.”

 

“Oh, well, we’re fine, you betcha. You know Denise Eckert just asked about you … I told her you were working for the state now, and she was very impressed. Did you hear Cindy just had her second baby? Do you still keep in touch?”

 

“No, Mom, why would we keep in touch?” Why did his mother have to be such a cliché sometimes?

 

“Well, people do that, you know. Where are you now?”

 

“It’s a town called Pawnee. It’s nice. Bigger than Partridge, but it’s still got that kind of small-town feeling. I think you’d like it, actually.”

 

“Well, that sounds nice. You sound happy.”

 

“Yeah, I’m doing all right.”

 

His Mom gasped, for no apparent reason. “You met someone, didn’t you.”

 

“Mom! I can just be fine, and it doesn’t have to mean anything.” He really wanted to tell her about Leslie, and come to think of it that was probably why he had the urge to call in the first place. But knowing how she’d blow it out of proportion, he held his tongue.

 

“I’m your mother, and I can tell these things! You know, you shouldn’t let her get away this time. I’m not getting any younger, and I’d rather have some grandkids while I’m still mobile enough to enjoy them …”

 

“MOM! Okay, well, it was good talking to you. I actually just remembered I have some work to finish up. Say hi to Dad. Okay, bye!”

 

He dropped the phone like it was on fire, then fell backwards onto the bed. He covered his face with his hands and then raked his fingers distractedly through his hair, the hair that his mom was always telling him he should get cut. You look like you think you're in a boy band, Benji.

 

Grandkids, though. For the first time in his life, the idea actually made him smile. Realizing what that meant, he rolled over and buried his head in his pillow.


End file.
